J.R. Roth | Writer

My Death In Baltimore

by J.R. Roth

I, Mortimer Edgars, transcribe here, for your benefit, the events of the past three evenings, during which I unwittingly sealed the inevitability of my own death on this very night. I must write swiftly as the stroke of midnight is but thirty minutes hence. It is at the witching hour I expect the murderous specters, who were set upon me by another, to come calling and claim their prize.

If, by the fates my demise was initiated, it is by my own folly that it was made certain.

You see, on Wednesday, two days past, I was convinced I should quit Baltimore by week’s end or face consequences most dire. For my three “investors” had discovered the true nature of my scheme and had sworn to alert the magistrate as to my intentions to abscond with their money.

The three confronted me at the Baltimore Institute for Savings, that grand building overlooking the harbor into which the wealthier merchants and financiers confidently deposit their boodle. I walked freely amongst the unsuspecting monied men, hoping to cultivate at least one more trusting soul to contribute to my scheme, despite having already curated three incautious investors.

I had found just such a soul and was conversing with the young, eager gentleman when my three “investors” descended upon me. I did not see them approach but heard them as they called to me across the lobby, challenging me as “thief,” and “swindler.” The harsh words bounced off the grand high ceiling and echoed off the marble walls, causing all eyes to seek the threat amongst their rank. Every client and clerk in the Institute stopped to watch as the boisterous threesome bore down upon me and accosted my person.

The three attempted to restrain me in order that I could be escorted to the magistrate’s office forthwith. But I slipped away and made for the front doors. They gave chase out the building, but I swiftly lost them amongst the midday crowd strolling the Avenues. I returned directly to my rooms, the location of which remains unknown to my erstwhile benefactors, lest they come looking for retribution.

That evening, I elected to quietly sup in my rooms, the meal prepared by my ever-vigilant housemistress Mrs. Dowd. I took the opportunity then to inform Mrs. Dowd that my affairs were such that I would no longer require the rooms. “Out by mid-day Saturday, if you please, Mr. Edgars,” was all she said.

The die cast, my time in Baltimore had come to an end. And me without having secured a single dollar to buoy my dwindling coffers. Flee I must. But to where? The questions plagued me, and the answers eluded me. My mind so agitated I could not concentrate. The quiet solitude of my rooms that once brought me solace, now mounted to smother and confine me, as if trapped in a mausoleum.

“Out!” I cried, to break the silence that threatened to deafen me. “A brisk constitutional amongst the living is what is required.”

Mindful that I should avoid the Avenues and the gas-lighted parks where the good people of Baltimore promenade, for there too would be many-a constable, I thought to walk west, in the opposite direction, toward the Lanes. There, the city mounted no lanterns and the night’s cloak of darkness would protect my anonymity so I could walk without fear of recognition.

Once outside, my mind immediately turned to solving my predicament. I could not escape to Philadelphia, having arrived in Baltimore a mere eight days earlier from that industrious city. I daren’t travel near Providence, Boston, nor Salem for fear of being recognized. Perhaps south, to Virginia, where I have heard tell of Norfolk’s recovery and the development of Portsmouth’s deepwater port. And there were considerations of my purse, now woefully light after setting up this most recent endeavor. I would need more coin before I could move to a new city.

So engrossed was I in my meditations that I had not paid heed to where my feet carried me. As I walked, deep in thought, I had unwittingly found my way into the depths of the most unfortunate section of the Lanes. I was lost deep in the labyrinthine of alleys and passageways where resided the ragged people of the working-side of the city. The paths I trod were empty, as the residents had long secured themselves behind doors barred against unwanted intrusions by rogues and robbers.

Here, the roads were narrow and scarcely wide enough for a cart to pass through. The pavers beneath my boots were slick from fluid I dare not dwell upon. And the roofs two stories above seemed to almost touch, closing out to me most any light from the night sky.

Lost, alone, and in the dark, I began to fear for my safety. Not only did I not know how to escape the maze that currently entrapped me, but I wondered who behind the closed doors and shuttered windows would answer my plea for help if tragedy were to befall me.

“Hi! You! Halt!” The hail from behind accosted my soul, freezing my blood with fear. I turned to face whatever trouble came my way, when a dirty workman appeared from the darkness, gliding steadily across the paving stones toward me. He wore brown grease-smeared britches and a grey wool shirt; his sleeves were turned up to the elbow in the fashion of a man who worked with his hands.

“Can it be?” the man exclaimed. “Are you Mortimer Edgars?” he inquired, looking at me as if I were a ghost come to life. “’Pon my lucky stars, ‘tis you, is it not?”

Detecting no malice in his tone or demeanor nor threat to my person, I cautiously engaged with this stranger. Through the darkness I scrutinized the man intently, for he bore the resemblance of someone I once knew but could not quite recall. Unsure if this man be friend or foe, I threw his inquiry back at him.

“Who, sir, are you?” I said drawing myself up to present as imposing a figure as possible.

He must have detected my distress and so as to ease my discomfort he calmly replied, “Be not afraid, I am a friend. James Calvert by name. ‘Twas I who supplied the monies for your ill-fated venture to bring rum from the West Indies. Your ship, The Gretchen’s Glory sank to the floor of the Atlantic before she could return with her cargo.”

The Gretchen’s Glory? I repeated to myself, for I had not heard mention of that name since last I was in Baltimore, some eight years ago. The Gretchen’s Glory was a fiction, a dream that I sold to willing buyers. Despite what I had told the investors, there had been no ship that sank, no crew that perished at sea, and there had been no hold full of rum now resting on the sea floor—but their money lined my pocket and made good my timely exit from Baltimore for Boston.

Then, as if a beacon from Heaven illuminated him, I immediately recalled my dealings with one Mr. Calvert, the up-and-coming Broadstreet financier. The esteemed Mr. Calvert had invested heavily in The Gretchen’s Glory expedition, supplying the lion’s share of the $3,200 I raised from five investors.

“Mister Calvert, I hardly recognized you,” feigning a friendly feeling toward him and offering my hand as a gesture of good will.

“Please forgive me for not shaking hands with you,” he said, holding his dirty hands up for me to examine. “And I shall nevertheless consider us well met,” Calvert said, bowing his head ever so slightly.

“Of course,” said I. “Well met, indeed.” I endeavored to appear amicable in order to allay any negative feelings he may still harbor toward me for the loss of his money.

“What unearthly task could bring you to the Lower Lanes at such a late hour?” Calvert inquired of me.

I pulled my watch from its home in my waistcoat, it read one hour to midnight.

“Alas,” said I. “I know not how I arrived at this ghastly place, but fear I am lost and shall never escape. Would you kindly direct me to the nearest point from which I may take flight from the Lanes and return to my world?”

“Of course. It would be my honor to assist you on your way,” said he most congenially.

We walked onward in silence. My mind raced; I knew not what to say. How could I ask this once titan of finance how he came to be so low?

“You must be curious as to how I arrive to be here as well,” Calvert said as if reading my thoughts.

I looked at the man and he looked me directly in the eye and said very plainly, “You see, my investment with you ended me.”

I made to protest his insinuation that I was to blame for his ruin, but he raised a hand to halt my speech and continued his tale.

“Oh no, dear sir,” said he. “Do not fret, I do not hold you responsible. I see it was my own folly that brought me down. Upon news from you that The Gretchen’s Glory was lost to the sea, my partners in business and my associates at the Institution refused to support me or extend my credit, leaving me nearly penniless.”

We walked on again in silence.

“The stench of disgrace on me was such that not even family relations would step forward to intervene. I was forced to relocate my family to a small, shared bungalow in a yard on the skirts of the Lanes. My wife took in washing and looked after Lisbet, who was but five years of age. I found employment at the butcher’s that afforded us small scraps of meat and a smaller amount of money. And, thus, we managed to survive.”

Again, I looked at the man walking next to me to see he was watching me closely for my reaction to his story. He continued.

“When a horse cart hit and killed Lisbet, my wife Jane fell into such a state she could no longer arise from bed. I had no coin for a physician, but a kindly neighbor offered vials of a draught her mother took for melancholia before she passed away. The draughts calmed Janey when she could do naught but cry, and they helped her sleep.”

We walked on, he and I, only the two of us existing in the world. I did not look at Calvert, though I could feel his eyes fastened upon me.

“Janey passed from this world whilst I toiled at the butcher’s shop. I discovered her—”

“Stop!” I cried. “Please, no more!” I ceased walking and turned to face the man. “My poor fellow, what hardships you have weathered. My heart breaks to hear this news.”

“I thank you,” he said. “It is a comfort to hear you say so.”

We continued down the alleyway without speaking. He navigated the twists and turns, from one crooked path onto the next without hesitation, our pace steady.

I feared I would never emerge from this strange nightmare I had entered when I saw, ahead, that the alley widened as the buildings parted. On the corner sat a drinking establishment commonly known as a public house, now closed and shuttered, having sent away its boisterous patrons hours ago, as the working day begins early in a port city. A wooden sign hung over the doorway: The Braying Ass. I recognized the road across the way as being the very one that led most directly to my boarding house from the Lanes.

I quickened my pace to hasten my escape.

“Mr. Edgars,” Calvert hailed me. “Before you depart, I wonder if you would undertake to return the favor I have done you?”

My hand closed upon my coin purse. “I would be pleased to repay your kindness. What is it you require?” My grip tightened.

“It is a delicate matter, but one I need assistance with. This very day I have learned that a distant relative may have left to me an inheritance of unknown value. I meet tomorrow with the solicitor to discover the details. I know you are knowledgeable in the modern ways of business. I would be most grateful if you would kindly consider taking on the task to help me navigate whatever pittance I might receive. I would offer you a percentage of whatever bounty may come to me.”

I must admit, my initial reaction was to run away and have nothing to do with this failure of a man. For, what is a percentage of a pittance? Ha! I wanted to laugh in his face. But my purse felt small in my hand and needed filling before I could travel. Any money is better than none, and perhaps I could convince him to hand it all over to me, so I agreed to help him.

He suggested we meet at the Braying Ass the following evening. I said I would be there and would offer what assistance I could. We parted most amicably and walked in opposite directions: he back into the depths of the Lower Lanes, and I toward my boarding rooms.

I passed an uneventful night in my rooms and rose late the next day, that being yesterday, the twelfth of September. I did not venture outdoors, electing instead to spend the day resolving my current predicament. I needed money and I needed direction. South to Norfolk sounded promising, but I knew precious little about the families and the environs. Therefore, funding was required to purchase access to those venues favored by the monied class in their search for recreation.

As the appointed hour approached, I readied myself and took to the streets. At a brisk walk, I made for the Lanes and the Braying Ass. Once inside the doors of the one-room establishment it became evident that this was far too crowded and noisy a venue for our meeting. Returning outside, I chose to sit upon a bench at the far side of the street. From this vantage I could spy the two alleys that stretched away from the corner that housed the Braying Ass and disappeared into the darkness.

A veritable gateway, I thought to myself amusedly.

Calvert appeared to the left side of the public house and hailed me to join him there. I crossed the street and greeted him. He bowed, again refusing to shake hands, apologizing for their dirty state and insisted that we stroll together so he could share his news.

He was in very good spirits and could not contain his happiness. As he led me through the twists and turns of the alleys and pathways, Calvert relayed to me stories of his distant aunt who had a vast estate left to her by her late husband. He regaled me with tales of her wealth and holdings. When he claimed she owned and wore more furs than John Jacob Astor, we both broke out in laughter as I exclaimed his tales to be beyond believable.

“You wish to hear something beyond believable?” he asked, full of mirth. “The dear dowager recently succumbed to old age. And she left everything to me,” at which point Mr. Calvert gave a loud, barking laugh.

Speechless, I stared at him. The fanciful tales of paintings and diamonds, of sweeping estates and thoroughbred horses, of summer cottages and large manors in town, suddenly felt very real; and very close, all within reaching distance of my very own hands.

He turned and I followed, travelling quietly for some time until he regained his composure and then spoke.

“You look to have done very well for yourself,” he said to me, gesturing to what I wore–my fine coat, vest, and shirt I had worn yesterday to the Savings Institution to find investors. “If you would be willing to help me manage my accounts, I would be most grateful to you.”

I could scarcely believe my fortunes. Just this afternoon my prospects appeared most dire. And now providence appears to have stepped in and sent this soul to save me.

“Yes,” I said turning to face Mr. Calvert. “I would be honored to provide you with whatever wisdom I am able so as to most benefit you in this unforeseen dilemma.”

“We must part company here, I’m afraid,” he said.

I looked up, surprised to find we were again at the Braying Ass, its doors closed and the rabble dispersed to their homes.

“Let us assemble here tomorrow evening at this same hour. I shall, by then, be in possession of deeds and other pertinent documentation given me by the solicitor that I have no doubt will require your help comprehending.”

I offered to accompany him to his solicitor appointment, but he waved me off, stating that my presence might raise unnecessary concerns for the solicitor.

I heartily agreed, for the fewer people aware of my participation in Calvert’s dealings, the fewer that might keen to my intentions.

I extended my hand to bid him farewell, but he again refused to shake it, holding his filthy hands and arms up to warn me away, lest I get my clothing dirty.

We bowed to each other once again and went our separate ways.

In twenty minutes, I had returned to my rooms. I was in such a state of elevated excitement, I thought I would not ever calm to sleep again. If, indeed, my fortunes had reversed and I was to stay in Baltimore to reap my rewards, then I had better keep Mr. Calvert from the business district, for fear that word of the posse of my investors in search of me may reach his delicate ears. Impossible. My mind churned. Did I come so close to vast riches only to be undone by my own insignificant ploy and three angry “investors”?

All of last night, I slept poorly. The thought of unrealized wealth slipping betwixt my fingers was more than I could accept. By sunrise, I had steeled my resolve to make Calvert’s vast estate mine. Plots and counter plots played in my mind, all the while dreaming of the life I would live.

Today, Friday, I spent at the harbor. The excitation I felt at my new and improved prospects was more than I could bear. The walls of my rooms closed in on me and I felt that I should burst could I not go out. So, I escaped the confines of my rooms and made for the piers, purposefully avoiding the business district. I found the distraction I had hoped for in a half-empty warehouse, where I joined a long-running game of dice that raged the whole day.

Nightfall found me a happy rogue, my purse slightly heavier than whence I’d arrived and my mind much at ease from the hours of distraction. My rendezvous with Calvert was still several hours hence, so I returned to my rooms and supped. I informed Mrs. Dowd that I would not be leaving Baltimore and that I would need my rooms for at least one more week.

“Stay as long as you will, Mr. Edgars. Makes no matter to me, as long as you pay,” she declared and cleared my dishes.

Anxious for my rendezvous, I made directly for the Braying Ass. Arriving at the agreed upon hour, I spied Calvert standing coolly off to the left, detached from the rowdy crowd spilling out of the doors of the public house. I hastened to join him and, knowing he would likely not shake hands, I bowed and bade him happy meeting.

He greeted me amicably enough and led the way into the Lanes, heading for his dwelling, I assumed. We had come only a short way when Calvert turned down a narrow, deserted passageway. I followed.

He was not moving quickly but with purpose, as we descended further into the passageway. I feared we might meet a third person travelling in the opposite direction, for we would have to squeeze by each other, belly to belly. The walls on either side seemed to disappear in the darkness above. The only sound was the clacking of my boots on the paving stones underfoot.

I thought to break the silence and asked if we were going to examine the documents at his place or were we heading to another. 

He stopped and turned, then addressed me: “I must confess, there are no documents to sign; I met with no solicitor. Like your Gretchen’s Glory, my dowager aunt was a ruse, a ploy, a gambit.”

So shocked at this news was I, that I knew not what to say. I stood there, speechless, my mouth agape.

“You snake!” said he.

Thinking I misheard his words, I laughed. But the aspect of his face had changed, his demeanor became menacing.

“You snake,” he spat at me. “You villainous serpent. You are the reason Lisbet is dead. You are the reason dear Janey is dead. Oh, that I could wield this rock and bash your brains, I would do so a thousand times.” Calvert bent to seize a loose cobblestone from the path, but his hand passed through it. “But, you see, I cannot. For I, too, am dead.”

Calvert leaned his head far to the left and revealed a deep dark mark that encircled his neck.

Aghast, I stepped back from the dead man in front of me. I looked him from head to toe and only then realized the man hovered over the ground, his feet neither supported him nor propelled him forward, but instead dragged through the paving stones. A ghost! I had been engaged with a phantasm.

Calvert floated toward me and said “Upon finding Janey dead in her bed, I could not bear continuing without her. So devastating to me was the loss of my beloved that I tied a length of rope onto a ceiling beam and hung myself forthwith. I have been cursed to haunt these alleys and passageways of the Lanes ever since, never able to leave.”

“If dead you be,” said I, my mouth dry as bones, “forwhy the charade?”

“A ha! You ask a singular question. When first we crossed paths two nights back, I was indeed pleased to see you. I could exact my revenge on you if I could keep you nearby until tonight. For, you see, tonight is that special night when your world and the demon world open to each other at midnight.”

My blood froze. Today was indeed Friday the Thirteenth. And at midnight, when the veil that separated the living from the dead was at its thinnest, spirits and demons were able to wreak havoc in this world.

The ghost continued to speak, “And though I may not be able to physically interact with your world, there are many in the underworld who are, and they are most anxious to make your acquaintance tonight, Mr. Edgars.” He laughed, a raucous affair, then floated closer to me so that we nearly touched.

“You have approximately one hour, sir, until your soul shall be ripped from your body and dragged to the dark underworld for an eternity of torment.”

Calvert laughed.

I watched as the ghost Calvert, inches from my face, began to slowly disappear. His voice echoed in the passageway, “Your greed and your deceptions have wrought what comes to you tonight.”

I ran from that passageway, back down the two alleys, past the Braying Ass and to the safety of my rooms. For a brief moment I thought to leave Baltimore before midnight but quickly realized it was impossible at this late hour. Instead, I picked up my quill to put ink to paper so as to document my demise.

Just now, the clock in my room strikes midnight. The ghastly howl of a thousand tortured souls surrounds me and threatens to drive me mad as they cry my name and call to me, promising eternal despair and endless agony. Harken now to the sound of heavy chains dragging along the ground, growing louder with every beat of my heart. I know the cold iron links will feel as fire to my wrists and neck as my demon-jailor drags me to hell. The icy cold cloud now filling my rooms is chilling my very bones, even as my breath issues forth in clouds of mist. I can scarcely grasp my quill pen and write what I know to be my last words. My body shakes violently from the terror that holds me in its all-consuming grip.  I fear I may not…

The End